


angels, choking on their halos

by littlesnowpea



Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Couple’s Costume, Halloween, M/M, Miscommunication, There’s No Way Any Of This Will Go Wrong ™️, Trans Andy Hurley, but like he gets better, costume contest, pete’s also an asshole, sorry brendon’s such a huge dick in this i promise i still love him, sorry patrick’s mom is such a huge dick in this if you’re reading this i’m sorry ma’am
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 02:21:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21245915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlesnowpea/pseuds/littlesnowpea
Summary: Patrick stared at the picture Pete had thrust in his face when he was halfway through a bowl of Reese’s Puffs (they were shaped like bats and he was a sucker) and staring vacantly at the TV. He frowned, blinked, and stared harder, but it did not arrange itself into anything remotely familiar.“What am I looking at,” he said, and Pete visibly deflated.“Our couples Halloween costume,” he said, taking the picture back. “But if you’re not into it, that’s okay.”“Our what,” Patrick said. He felt a little lost. There were a number of problems with what Pete had just said, starting with “Halloween” and ending with “couples”. “We’re not dating.”





	angels, choking on their halos

**Author's Note:**

> i’m so thrilled to have such a wonderful group of writers to write with. thanks to the discord and especially to the pack for supporting me through an incredibly difficult time, which helped me finish this. 
> 
> also i love good omens
> 
> sorry pete’s a dick

Patrick stared at the picture Pete had thrust in his face when he was halfway through a bowl of Reese’s Puffs (they were shaped like bats and he was a sucker) and staring vacantly at the TV. He frowned, blinked, and stared harder, but it did not arrange itself into anything remotely familiar. 

“What am I looking at,” he said, and Pete visibly deflated. 

“Our couples Halloween costume,” he said, taking the picture back. “But if you’re not into it, that’s okay.”

“Our what,” Patrick said. He felt a little lost. There were a number of problems with what Pete had just said, starting with “Halloween” and ending with “couples”. “We’re not dating.”

“Well,” Pete allowed, inclining his head. “No. But I thought it would be fun.”

Patrick stared blankly at him. Pete groaned and threw up his hands in frustration.

“God, just say yes or no,” he said, scowling. “Stop staring at me like I’m a rare species in a zoo.”

“It’s 3am,” Patrick said. The clock helpfully chimed ten times and the sun peeked in over the blinds to illustrate the clock’s point. “Whatever. Let me think for a second. What even are those costumes?”

“Oh my god,” Pete said, but handed the photo back over. “We watched this series ten times.”

“You want us to be Aziraphale and Crowley?” Patrick asked, realization dawning on him. Pete huffed. Patrick, fearing Pete might not have gotten his meaning, repeated himself. “You want. Us. To be Aziraphale. And Crowley.”

“That’s what the picture is,” Pete said. “Yes or no, Trick or Treat.”

“I told you to stop calling me that,” Patrick said automatically. His bangs fell into his eyes and he blew them away, studying the picture critically. “So where are we wearing these this year? Got a new place to humiliate me and abandon me?”

“I won’t do that this year,” Pete promised. Patrick narrowed his eyes.

“We are not going to Saporta’s this year,” he said. “Absolutely not. Out of the question.”

“Why not?” Pete asked, as if he did not have a scar across his left buttcheek and a badly done leg tattoo to illustrate Patrick’s point. Patrick scowled. 

“Alphabetically or chronologically?” he asked. “Don’t give me that look.”

“I’m not giving you a look,” said Pete, definitely giving Patrick a look. “Listen, I really want to go to Saporta’s this year dude. He’s having a costume contest. Winner gets tickets to the Cubs.”

“The contest prize could be one million dollars and I still wouldn’t go,” Patrick said firmly. Pete pouted. “Stop.”

“Patrick,” Pete said very seriously. “If you go to this party with me, dressed in our not-a-couple couples costume, I will let you talk to me about the deep cuts on Blackstar for two entire months. Three months. And I won’t complain.”

“You hate it when I talk about deep cuts,” Patrick said suspiciously. “You claim I put you to sleep.”

“Does that not demonstrate how badly I want to go to Saporta’s?” Pete asked. “Trick. Please. Box seats, Trick! Box seats!”

Patrick stared Pete down for a long moment before sighing, shoulders slumping, and pointing accusingly at Pete.

“If you wanna drag me to Saporta’s on Halloween, dressed up in a couples costume with you where anyone with a camera phone can take photos and plaster them on the Wall of Shame outside the Art building, you better work your ass off on these costumes and make sure we win.”

Pete nodded eagerly. Patrick narrowed his eyes. 

“And I’m going with you to the Cubs,” he said, triumphant. To his dismay, Pete shrugged.

“I mean, obviously,” he said, and Patrick grabbed the blush that was creeping up his face by the hair and shoved it unceremoniously into a box. “Who else would I take?”

“Don’t make me write up a list,” Patrick muttered. “We better win.”

“With you as my Aziraphale?” Pete asked. “It’s in the bag.”

“Why can’t I be Crowley?” Patrick complained, but Pete was already walking away, nose buried in his phone as he no doubt texted Gabe to let him know they were coming. 

Patrick let his head thunk back on the couch with a sigh. What the hell had he gotten himself into?

—-

“Uh, no,” Patrick said. Pete, the absolute bastard, pretended to pout. “I’m not wearing wings.”

“But you’re an angel,” Pete protested. “How else are people going to know who you are?”

“That’s what you spending time on the costume is supposed to accomplish,” Patrick pointed out, trying to get around Pete to the front door. “Peter, I am late.”

“Come on,” Pete scoffed. “As if Andy is going to lecture you, his best employee, on tardiness.”

“I also don’t want to have this conversation with you,” Patrick huffed. “Move it.”

“Yes or no so far,” Pete said, shaking the picture to emphasize his point. 

“I just said no,” Patrick said. “No wings.”

“Come on,” Pete repeated. “Be a good sport.”

“A good sport?” Patrick asked, staring at Pete in his best impression of that one teacher he had in eighth grade whenever he was daydreaming in class. “I have been the very definition of a good sport the entire time so far. I am _going to Saporta’s_. There isn’t a gooder sport than me.”

“Better,” Pete said. 

“Furthermore,” Patrick said loudly, ignoring Pete’s correction. “I will not wear wings.”

“Ugh, fine,” Pete said. “For the record, you are not being a good sport.”

“I have to go to work,” Patrick said, instead of anything even remotely nasty that he _wanted_ to say. Progress. He pushed his way past his best friend—why did he even let him in today—and made a beeline for the stairs to the streets of Chicago, hands stuffed in his jacket pocket, grumbling to himself. 

Why had he done this? What was wrong with him? What was with his complete inability to say no to Pete whenever Pete had an idea, no matter how dumb?

He voiced these questions to Andy once he got to the record store and did his best to steadfastly ignore Andy’s amused look. He may or may not have been thinking uncharitable thoughts towards his boss. But he digressed. 

“Perhaps,” Andy said, around a mouthful of Halloween candy he’d insisted on having on the counter. “It’s because your feelings are getting too strong.”

“The candy is for the customers,” Patrick said, instead of gracing that with a response. “The customers can’t have any if the owner eats it all. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

“Thankfully, there’s another bag in the back,” Andy said gravely, nodding. “So the horror of the customers not getting a fun size Snickers is avoided. The tragedy. Can you imagine.”

“I don’t appreciate your sarcasm,” Patrick said, frowning. “Can you focus back on me now?”

“Yes, your majesty,” Andy said, bowing. “How can I worship you today, my lord?”

“You’re a real assface,” Patrick said. 

“That’s no way to talk to your boss,” Andy frowned, then: “Fuckface.”

“Real mature,” Patrick said, as if he didn’t start it. “But for real.”

“I already said what I thought,” Andy sniffed. “Maybe if you faced your feelings, you could handle yourself like a real man.”

“You sexist pig,” Patrick said. Andy pressed a hand to his chest. 

“Me?” he said, all faux innocent. “How could you imply that?”

“Pretty easily,” Patrick said. 

“I used to have boobs, you know,” Andy said. 

“Yes, I know,” Patrick replied, rolling his eyes. “That does not excuse your current sexist tendencies.”

“What are you gonna say at the party when people assume you’re dating?” Andy asked, ignoring Patrick’s point completely. Patrick paused, uncertain. Andy raised an eyebrow, as if that meant he won or something. “Exactly. You haven’t thought about this at _all_.”

“I’ve thought about this,” Patrick protested. “I’ve thought so much about this. Nobody could have thought this through more than me.”

“Okay,” Andy said, agreeably, but also probably making fun of Patrick somewhere in there. “So?”

“So what?” Patrick asked, deliberately playing dumb. Andy rolled his eyes. 

“So what’s your plan?” he asked. “Let’s say Mikey asks how long you and Pete have been going out. What will you say?”

“Low blow, invoking your ex’s name,” Patrick muttered. Andy looked triumphant. “I’m working on it.”

“I hear the word _no_ does wonders,” Andy pointed out. 

“I’m ignoring you now,” Patrick said. “I have a lot of work to do and I am going to concentrate very hard on it. Don’t bother saying anything, it won’t work.”

“You haven’t worked hard a day in your life,” Andy said, the liar. Patrick very deliberately ignored him. “How’s school going?”

“What’s school?” Patrick said, really not into Andy’s concerned parent role. Andy rolled his eyes. 

“C’mon, dude,” he said. “I care about you, you dumbass. You jerkface. You--”

“Jesus, shut up,” Patrick groaned. “I’m fine, okay?”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Andy asked softly, and Patrick cursed him bitterly in his head for being a decent guy who actually cared. Still, Patrick shook his head.

“Nothing to talk about,” he lied. There was a lot to talk about. “I don’t even like Thanksgiving and I hate planes, so really, it’s for the better.”

“It is not for the better,” Andy said. “You deserve better than that.”

“Who cares?” Patrick snapped, slamming down the pile of CDs he’d been sorting with more force than he’d meant to. He felt bad for .2 seconds exactly before remembering Andy was busy running his mouth and got angry again. “So what? I don’t need my mom’s approval and I don’t care what she thinks. I never have.”

That was another lie. He cared very deeply that his mother rejected him. He’d just wanted--he wanted to stop lying to her, and he wanted to show her he was settling down, but she didn’t want to hear it. It didn’t matter. Anyway, now he was stuck in California until he “changed his mind” and magically stopped liking dick. It was whatever. It was _fine_.

“I just hate seeing you sad,” Andy said quietly. “I know I’m old enough to be your father--”

“You are _four_ years older than me, dude, it’s not exactly an enormous age gap—”

“—but I care about you.” Andy’s voice was so gentle Patrick pretended to hate him all over again. “That’s why this costume idea is a bad one.”

“Jesus, not this again,” Patrick groaned. “Andy, I’m over it. It’s fine. Me and Pete are best friends and that is all and I am okay with that.”

“Is that why you broke a tooth clenching your jaw when Mikey and Pete dated for a minute?” Andy said mildly. 

“That was a million years ago,” Patrick said. 

“Three months,” Andy corrected. Patrick ignored him. “You know, you just have to--”

“Nope!” Patrick said loudly, and this time actually began walking away, stopping short of slapping hands over his ears. “We are not having this conversation! I have important things to do. Store room things. Away-from-you things.”

“Whatever,” Andy called after him. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

Patrick shut the store room door hard, imagining punching Andy’s stupid, kind face.

\---

The problem with Andy’s stupid, kind face was that Andy’s stupid, kind face was right. This probably was a bad idea. Patrick said as much, face buried in his pillow, ignoring his roommate passive-aggressively turning the TV up. 

“Why did I say yes?” he lamented, voice muffled. Something entirely too hard to safely throw hit the back of his head and he lifted himself up with a scowl. 

“I am tired of hearing this shit,” Joe proclaimed, setting his PS4 controller down and leveling Patrick with the most unsettling stare Patrick had ever been on the receiving end of. Patrick sighed, pushing himself all the way up and rubbing the back of his head, finding the remote Joe had chucked at him and purposefully leaning over to drop it between the wall and the bed. Ha. Take _that_.

“I need to learn how to say no,” Patrick said morosely. 

“You know how to say no,” Joe said. “You say no daily. Several times daily. You need to learn to say no to _Pete_. And/or get over him already.”

“I’m over him,” Patrick said. “I am so over him, you have no idea.”

“Right,” Joe said, in his patented _I cannot believe this complete infant_ voice. Patrick knew that voice well. It was usually directed at him, despite the fact that he was _older than Joe_. “Is that why you still hang on to those photobooth photo strips like a war widow?”

“Don’t be overdramatic,” Patrick said, which was quite rich of him, since he was the most overdramatic person he knew. “I don’t--they’re good pictures of me. That’s all.”

“Photobooth pictures are never good,” Joe said. “Look, the way I see it, you're only hurting yourself. Either give him a chance romantically or cut him out completely because I don’t think you are capable of being friends with him, Patrick.”

“It wasn’t his fault,” Patrick sighed. 

“No,” Joe said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “He tripped and landed, naked, on Ashlee.”

“We weren’t dating,” Patrick said. “I never asked him out.”

“I never want to hear you defend Pete’s actions ever again,” Joe interrupted loudly. “In fact, I forbid it.”

Patrick was silent. Not really by choice. It was more that he was pretty sure he would burst into tears if he opened his mouth and he really wanted to avoid doing that all over Joe. Again. 

Joe, unfortunately, seemed to know what was happening, because he sighed, turning off the TV manually and crossing the dorm room to gently sit next to Patrick, rubbing his back a little hesitantly. Patrick bit his lip so hard it hurt--tears might not help his case of being over it, that was all--and sucked in a breath through his teeth. 

“I never actually asked him out,” he finally said. He felt like a parrot. “He was perfectly within his rights to sleep with whoever he wanted.”

“What did I just say?” Joe demanded, exasperated. “Look, maybe you never said the words _Pete go out with me_ but you weren’t exactly subtle. You bought him tickets to Disney.”

“We’re friends,” Patrick said defensively. 

“You’re a broke college student,” Joe said. “Broke college students don’t spend that much money on _friends_. Any idiot could figure out you’re into him.”

“I _was_ into him,” Patrick muttered.

“Patrick, you agreed to dress up in a couple’s costume with Pete,” Joe said, exasperated. “You cannot—_cannot_—live in this limbo.”

“I don’t know if I can just move on,” Patrick said. This time, his asshole voice was trembling. Someone shoot him already. “Maybe it’s dumb, but I still like him. Okay? I admit it. I still like him.”

“Tell him,” Joe said firmly. “And get it straight. Stop letting him play games with your heart—no, I don’t care if you think he doesn’t mean it—or I swear to god I will shove that boy’s head so far down the toilet, he’ll see fucking Atlantis.”

“I don’t think he’s afraid of you,” Patrick said.

“That can change,” Joe replied. Patrick sighed, laying back and staring up at the dorm room ceiling. It didn’t provide any answers, or at least didn’t provide answers he understood. Joe nudged him. 

“I’ll talk to him,” Patrick possibly lied. “Before the party.”

“For your own good,” Joe said. “Believe me.”

“I do,” Patrick possibly lied again, and shut his eyes. 

\---

Patrick stared at his reflection very hard for five minutes. He considered interrogating it--what were you thinking? Who hurt you? Are you being paid to do this? Who paid you?

Alas, his reflection merely stared back. Patrick sighed, stupid, fake wings rustling with the movement, and pried his tiny bathroom door open, slipping through to scowl at Pete. 

“I said no wings,” he said. Pete looked him up and down, but said nothing. Patrick scowled harder.

“What are you staring at?” he asked. Pete cocked his head. 

“You look like I kicked your puppy,” Pete said. “Angels are supposed to be happy.”

“This angel,” Patrick said, gesturing to himself to emphasize his point. “Is not happy. This angel does not want to go to a college party on a school night.”

“What are you, forty with two kids and a loveless marriage?” Pete asked. “It’s one night. And you don’t have class tomorrow, I checked.”

“You checked,” Patrick said slowly, hoping to God he’d misheard that. “Pray tell. How did you _check_.”

“A magician never reveals his secrets,” Pete said sagely. 

“Horseshit,” Patrick replied. 

“Come on,” Pete cajoled. “You look really good.”

“I want it noted that I did not want to go,” Patrick said, even as Pete groaned and turned towards the door. He fell into step just behind Pete, scowling at him and using every inch of his willpower to not flat tire him on purpose. It took a considerable amount. Pete was wearing an all-black getup and he’d managed to dye his hair red. 

It looked incredibly, unfairly good. 

“Hey, Pete?” he asked, voice trembling a little with anticipation and nerves. This could only go two ways. Pete liked him too or Pete didn’t. Patrick had to be okay with either answer. At least, he told himself that. 

“Yeah?” Pete asked as they stepped outside. Patrick rummaged for his keys in his pocket and locked the door, slipping them back into his pocket and taking a deep, steadying breath.

“There’s kind of something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” he said, hoping he didn’t actually sound like he’d rehearsed this in the bathroom for two hours, because he definitely had. Pete made an inquisitive noise and Patrick opened his mouth to spill the beans—_so I totally am not over you and in fact, I may or may not be completely in love with you, ha ha, how about that_, but he never managed to say a word. 

“I hate how it gets dark so early,” Pete said, steamrolling over Patrick just like he usually did. He did it pretty often, now that Patrick thought about it, and he considered for .2 seconds the possibility of Joe being right. It was possible Pete was just a little bit of a shitty friend. 

Patrick didn’t say anything back, just sliding his hands into the pockets of his just-slightly-too-tight blazer—God damn it, he really needed to diet again—and stared at the ground, willing the frustrated tears away. He was mostly successful, and it actually didn’t matter, because in classic Pete Wentz fashion, Pete just kept talking regardless of if Patrick was responding or even conscious. 

He let Pete’s chatter sort of wash over him as they headed down the street to Gabe’s house. Yes, house, because his parents bought Gabe a _house_ to live in during _college_, and, meanwhile, it was all Patrick could do to get his mom’s tax return to fill out FAFSA and pray for funding. 

Patrick might be a little bitter that Gabe’s family—and Pete’s, not that he wanted to think about that—was so rich and cared about their kids, but he decided he deserved a little bitterness. 

Because here was the thing, he reasoned with himself, as Pete went on and on about how boring his Microeconomics class was. The thing was that Joe wasn’t actually wrong. Patrick very much had feelings for Pete. He very much was going to introduce him to his mom as a way of coming out to her. He, obviously, was going to ask Pete out before doing this. He also didn’t think he was particularly subtle. 

Then Pete slept with Ashlee. And then Mikey. And it was like Patrick didn’t even matter.

And Patrick was really the dumbest one here, no matter what Joe said, because it had hurt so badly that he called his mom, crying his eyes out, confessed that he was gay and the boy he’d planned on bringing home hurt him, and his mom basically told him he was not welcome home until he dated a woman. 

That part wasn’t really Pete’s fault, though. And that wasn’t defending Pete. That was just the truth. 

“Earth to Patrick,” Pete said, waving a hand in front of Patrick’s face. Patrick blinked, jerking back reflexively, and Pete laughed at him, and definitely not in a teasing way. This was a full on, amused Wentz laugh, the kind he usually used when he was being mean. 

“What?” Patrick said crossly. 

“We’re here,” Pete said, gesturing at the house as if Patrick didn’t have eyes and couldn’t see it. “Sorry I was boring you so much you zoned out.”

That was delivered with a sharp edge, which, fuck you, Pete. How the fuck was he allowed to get mad at the little things Patrick did that displeased him but Patrick had to be fine with what had happened over the summer?

A voice that sounded remarkably like Joe’s spoke up in the back of Patrick’s mind.

_This is the guy you’re in love with?_

Patrick very politely told that voice to shut the fuck up, please.

“I have a migraine,” Patrick lied, and he didn’t even feel bad about it. More progress. “And I’m coming just to make you happy. So don’t bitch me out.”

“Sorry,” Pete said, and he even looked contrite. Patrick pushed past him and through the front door. He staggered a moment as one of the ridiculous wings caught on the door handle, face heating up despite the fact that the only person to witness that was Pete. Speaking of. 

“Here,” Pete said, and he sounded gentle. The bastard. “You’re caught up.”

_No shit, Sherlock,_ Patrick wanted to say, but in an act of heroic self restraint, he kept his mouth shut. He held still as Pete freed him, then rolled his shoulders back and took a deep breath. 

“Okay,” he said finally. “Point me in the direction of the contest so I can leave.”

Pete immediately looked guilty. Patrick stared at him in a mixture of disbelief and slow-growing horror. 

“There isn’t a costume contest, is there?” he asked. God. He was an idiot. What was he _thinking_, this was _exactly_ the kind of shit Pete would do. Fuck this. Fuck this, and more importantly, fuck _him_. And no. Not literally. 

“There is!” Pete said quickly, reassuringly. “I swear on my dick there is.”

“On your dick?” Patrick asked, thrown for a loop. Pete nodded. 

“It’s the most important thing to me,” he said, winking, and Patrick rolled his eyes. It was not charming. It was _not_.

“So why do you look guilty?” Patrick asked when Pete did not elaborate. Pete looked even more guilty, and Patrick narrowed his eyes. 

“So it’s later on tonight,” he said, clearly hedging. Patrick was not impressed. 

“What’s _later on_?” he asked, and Pete sighed. 

“It’s at midnight,” he said, and Patrick jaw damn near dropped to the floor. 

“Midnight?” he demanded. “It is seven thirty!”

“PM,” Pete said, as if that helped. 

“That doesn’t help!” Patrick said, outraged. “You tricked me. Like _Making a Murderer_.”

“I don’t think it’s quite that dramatic,” Pete said, frowning. “And you totally stole that joke.”

“I don’t want to wait around for four and a half hours, Pete,” Patrick groaned. Pete gave him a shit eating grin. It did not help in the slightest. 

“That’s why we’re not waiting around,” he said. “We’re getting drunk.”

“Pete,” Patrick said warningly, but Pete ignored him, grabbing his arm and dragging him into the house.

\----

Patrick had been at Gabe’s party for twenty one minutes and fifteen seconds (he counted) and he was already tired. He glared at Pete from across the room, but Pete, talking loudly and gesturing with his cup, sloshing beer out as he did, did not notice. Asshole.

Whatever was in his cup tasted foul. Well, college students concocted it. Patrick didn’t know what he expected. Why he still had standards after two years of college, he’d never know. 

Point was, Pete was having the time of his life and Patrick was here, hating everything. As always. He thought for a moment about walking out the door, leaving Pete to do his stupid contest by himself and picking up some dignity as he left, but then Pete looked up from his conversation and shot Patrick a grin that had him melting internally all over again. 

Goddamnit. 

“So,” someone drawled from behind him, drawing the word out like it was the most interesting thing they’d ever said. Patrick refused to turn around and grace that dick with a single look, so he didn’t. “Matching costumes?”

“What do you want,” Patrick said flatly. He imagined the smirk Brendon was giving him in response and resisted the urge to punch him square in his stupid face. What an asshole. Reason number eleven _hundred_ that Patrick didn’t want to come to this party in the first place. 

“Me?” Brendon asked, clearly going for innocent but failing. There were serial killers out there somewhere with better lying skills than Brendon Urie would ever possess, Patrick was sure of it. 

“Yes, you,” Patrick said. “We’re not friends.”

Brendon snorted. 

“Thank god for that,” he said, and Patrick smelled the marijuana smoke Brendon had blown all over the back of his neck. He scowled. “Just wondering when you two became a thing.”

_We’re not a thing_ was on the tip of Patrick’s tongue, defensive and defiant, but then Pete laughed at whatever his admirer had said, throwing his head back, the lean line of his throat making Patrick’s mouth go dry, and he’d answered before he thought about it at all. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he said, tone nasty. “I’m so sorry you lost. Oh wait. No I’m not.”

Brendon laughed, but it was mean and sharp. Patrick gritted his teeth so hard it hurt. 

“Lost?” he asked, liked the concept was foreign to him. “I haven’t lost. He didn’t put a ring on you or anything. Although, even if he did, well. I’m me and you’re you. There’s not much of a competition, _darling_.”

Brendon was such a fucking asshole and he was _right_, of course he was right. Between him and Brendon, there wasn’t so much as a question about who Pete would choose if he had to. Didn’t Patrick know it. 

It wasn’t even just Brendon’s incessant pursuance of Pete that annoyed Patrick, to be honest. It was more that he was a) a gloater, b) a dick, and c) leading that poor kid that followed him everyone on so much it made everyone around them wince in sympathy and secondhand embarrassment. Spencer didn’t get that Brendon didn’t care about him. He didn’t get it _so much_ that Patrick wondered if he looked that obvious and that stupid. He really felt bad for Spencer. He hoped one day Spencer would open his eyes and find someone better. He deserved it. 

“It might not be a competition,” Patrick said, smirking and injecting as much taunting as he could possibly fit into his tone. “But unfortunately for you, in the end, no matter who Pete picks, I have dignity and you...well, you probably have an STD or two.”

Slutshaming was kind of a low blow, but Patrick had never wanted Brendon to leave more in his entire life. He didn’t turn around, be he knew a nasty glare was being sent his way, and Brendon “accidentally” elbowed him hard as he stalked away, making Patrick stagger two steps and rub his ribs with a wince. 

Assface. 

Pete seemed to not notice the entire exchange, which was classic. Patrick drained his cup and sighed before gently (and then not-so-gently) pushing his way through the crowd towards where he sort of remembered the kitchen was. He deserved so many drinks. He deserved all the drinks. His phone vibrated. 

**Joe **  
_how goes it my dude_

Patrick grimaced. He set his empty cup on the kitchen counter--granite, of course, because Gabe’s parents would only buy their son the BEST as he flunked out--and sighed before texting back.

_oh lovely. my favorite person in the world is here. _

Patrick rolled his neck, sighing in satisfaction at the crack he got for it, and stared out the window. It was dark outside. It wasn’t anywhere closer to midnight than it had been, but it was dark now. The moon was full in the sky, which was so stereotypically Halloween it was ridiculous. 

He never really cared about Halloween. Certainly not enough to go to a party at a stupid big house the night of Halloween and make a fool out of himself just because he couldn’t say no to Pete’s dumb handsome face. He should have _known_ Brendon would be here. Who would be next, Ashlee? Mikey? Who did he have to save face for next?

**Joe**  
_what a little prick. next time he gives you shit remind him i rejected him. _

Patrick laughed a little at that before sliding his phone back into his pocket and picking up his empty cup again. He eyed the punch bowl for a long moment before shrugging and scooping some into his cup and taking a swig. 

_Excellent_, he thought, even as his eyes began watering. _It’s even worse._

A loud cheer came from the room Patrick had just left and he winced as the stereo was cranked up, some dubstep song playing so loud the walls shook. Patrick closed his eyes. 

Just four more hours. 

\-----

Patrick’s fake migraine was starting to look less fake by the time he saw Pete again. The house was stupidly dark, the only light from haphazardly hung string lights with fake spiders and many candles that were posing a serious fire hazard. Patrick had finished three cups of punch and switched to water. He wasn’t _boring_, okay, he just hated hangovers. That was _it_.

Pete had somehow acquired a larger crowd, all hanging on his every word. It made Patrick feel a little better at least--he wasn’t the only one who bought Pete completely, hook, line, and sinker. There were at least eight others. 

Although, they all looked like freshmen, so it might be the magic of the school’s soccer star actually talking to them. If only they knew Pete would gladly talk for hours at anyone who would sit still and pretend to listen. They weren’t special. 

Okay, that was a bit uncharitable, but hey. There was only so much Patrick could take and it was only--Patrick checked his phone--ten thirty. 

“Okay,” he whispered to himself, basically inaudible under the pounding of the bass. “Just walk up to him and drag him outside and fucking say it already. You gotta say it. By the end of tonight. You _promised_.”

What Patrick had promised was irrelevant, as was who he’d promised to, but he’d promised. He couldn’t break that promise. At least not _again_.

Pete said something Patrick couldn’t hear and the group burst into laughter. Patrick was willing to bet the joke wasn’t even funny. Pete’s jokes never were. He took a deep breath and pushed through the crowd, ignoring the dirty looks the fanboys gave him, and stopping in front of Pete. 

Pete broke into a dazzling grin. 

“Patty!” he said loudly, cheeks pink from alcohol and being the center of attention. Patrick had told Pete over and over that he hated that nickname, but he shouldn’t have bothered. Pete would say whatever he wanted anyway. 

“I gotta talk to you,” Patrick said. He sounded as nervous as he felt, unfortunately, but apparently Pete didn’t notice, pouting at him instead. 

“But I’m in the middle of a story,” he said, and Patrick rolled his eyes. “Can it wait?”

“No,” Patrick lied. Well, it wasn’t really a lie, because Patrick didn’t know if he’d get his nerves back. Pete pouted again but handed his beer to one of his _adoring_ fans. 

“Alright,” Pete sighed, acting put out. He turned that unfair smile on the group, instead. “Save my spot, you know I’ll be back.”

Patrick got even more dirty looks as Pete headed for the back sliding glass door that led to the patio. There were a crapton of people out there, too, but Patrick figured he could drag Pete to the most private spot he could find. It was important. It was _important_.

“What is it, Patrick?” Pete asked, sounding annoyed. Not a great start. Patrick took a deep breath. “Look, I was really getting somewhere in there.”

That threw Patrick off his carefully built soapbox and he blinked in confusion at Pete, who rolled his eyes. 

“In there?” he said slowly, dragging the words out like Patrick was stupid. Patrick _felt_ stupid. “I almost got him to give me his number.”

“His number?” Patrick said, feeling like a dazed parrot. His heart pounded in his ears, a dull roar that made him feel completely lost. Burning hot shame spread across his face. He bet it was bright red. His heart fluttered in his throat and he swallowed past tears. All at once he felt like a bright, hot spotlight had been turned on him. Like the entire party was about to silently file out of the house and watch Patrick as an announcer gave a play-by-play, cruelly jeering as Patrick floundered. 

_And here we have the most pathetic college junior the world has ever seen. He honestly believed that soccer star, stupidly attractive, and smart Pete Wentz would ever love him back. Keep a close eye on his face as Pete prepares to publicly humiliate him for daring to hope._

“Yeah,” Pete said, oblivious to the internal turmoil Patrick was experiencing, evidently not noticing how red Patrick’s face was or how humiliated he felt. Tears welled in his eyes. “He’s a freshie but listen, I think I got him. He wants to impress me so much. I bet he’d sleep with me if I asked.”

Bit by bit, piece by piece, Patrick’s world began to collapse around him, chunks of earth splintering, sky raining debris and acid. He felt very much like anyone watching would be able to tell what Patrick was feeling just with one single glance, but Pete was clearly immune. He struggled to find words, any words. He had no idea what he would do now. That answered it, didn’t it? Pete had no intention of dating Patrick. He never had. He didn’t care about Patrick like Patrick cared about him. 

Patrick swallowed, throat dry. His heart lodged itself behind his vocal chords but he managed to say the only thing that came to mind: “Gabe is looking for you.”

It was probably not even a lie. Gabe was always looking for Pete. Even if he wasn’t, Gabe was probably too drunk to realize he hadn’t asked for Pete. 

Pete broke into a grin. 

“Sweet,” he said. “I bet it’s about the costume contest.”

Patrick’s heart sank. The costume contest. Of course. The thing he’d come to this stupid party for. What an idiot he was, honestly. He didn’t say anything and Pete brushed past him, heading back inside to presumably search for Gabe among the crowd of partiers. 

Patrick didn’t follow. Instead, he took three steps to the stairs of the deck and sank down, eyes wide and unseeing. Did that really happen? After months of carrying a torch Patrick probably should have doused with water, Pete did it for him all in two sentences. 

Or so Patrick desperately wished he had.

A sudden spike of anger hit him and he scowled, hands clenching into fists. How dare he. How _dare_ he, Patrick hoped that freshman rejected him outright, laughed in Pete’s face. Patrick hoped Pete would be humiliated just as much as Patrick had been a couple minutes ago, put on the spot, cheeks on fire, watching your hope go down the toilet.

All at once, the fire in him died down. Christ, it wasn’t really Pete’s fault, was it? That voice that sounded like Joe was vocally disapproving of that notion, but Patrick pressed on. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. Patrick hadn’t _said anything_, how was Pete supposed to know? And it wasn’t like--look, Brendon said it best, hadn’t he? Patrick was Patrick. Pete would never suspect Patrick liked him. 

If Pete suspected Patrick liked him, Patrick would like to think he’d be a little less of a dick.

Patrick should probably tell Pete anyway. He should probably be like “hey, just so you know, I love your dumb ass. Isn’t that funny? Hahaha good luck with your one night stand.”

No, he couldn’t do that. 

“Hey,” someone said, and Patrick flinched reflexively. He looked up with trepidation and saw none other than Spencer Smith, holding a bottle of water and looking a little despondent. 

“Hey,” Patrick finally said back, after a silence that lasted at least two years, then shifted over. “Want to sit?”

“Thanks,” Spencer said, voice hollow. He sat, thousand yard stare and all, shoulders slumping with what looked like defeat. He lifted the water bottle to his lips and took a drink. Patrick waited. 

“I saw,” Spencer said finally. Patrick frowned, confused. Spencer gestured to nothing, which didn’t help. “Your conversation with Pete just now. I’m sorry.”

“Am I that obvious?” Patrick asked wryly, slouching down himself. “Great. I probably look like some desperate kid needing attention.”

“You’re not obvious,” Spencer said. It even sounded like the truth. “And that’s not what I see.”

“What do you see?” Patrick asked, unable to help the note of bitterness in his voice. Spencer didn’t seem to mind, giving him a faint smile and taking another long drink of water. 

“I see me,” Spencer shrugged. “Someone completely in love with the wrong person. There’s only one difference.”

“And what’s that?” Patrick asked. Spencer glanced over at him, looked him up and down, then looked away, tugging on his tie. Belatedly, Patrick realized Spencer was dressed as Beetlejuice, which. Only on Halloween would he be having this serious of a conversation dressed up in costumes. 

“Somewhere, deep down, there’s a good person inside Pete,” Spencer shrugged. “And maybe someday, that good person will come out and you can be happy. You’re lucky like that.”

“I’m sorry,” Patrick said quietly. “I really am.”

Spencer smiled, but it was strained. 

“It’s alright,” he said. It didn’t sound alright to Patrick. A fresh surge of disgust for Brendon raged bitterly through Patrick, and he leaned over and rested his head on Spencer’s shoulder. After a long moment, Spencer sighed. “So?”

“So what?” Patrick said. He had an idea, but he really didn’t want to talk about it. Spencer nudged him. 

“So what happened?” he asked. “I know you like him, I can see it. And there’s gotta be history here.”

Of course. Of course Spencer worked it out. Patrick must have been the most obvious fucker on the planet. Just what he wanted. 

“It’s nothing,” he said. Shit, it even sounded like a lie. “It’s just. I was gonna ask him out. But before I could he got with someone else. So I let it go.”

“He kind of treats you like crap,” Spencer observed. “You really put up with that?”

“He doesn’t mean to,” Patrick said, in a very pathetic tone of voice. His hands grasped his pants tight and he tried to keep his voice even, if not unaffected. “It’s just his personality. He’s-- he’s just--”

“I think part of the problem,” Spencer said carefully, cutting Patrick off before he could stammer through more useless excuses. “Is that you never hold him accountable for his actions. Maybe if you did that, he’d understand that he can’t go through life like this. Ignorant of other people’s feelings and needs.”

“Do you hold Brendon accountable?” Patrick asked. He honestly didn’t mean for that to sound as mean as it came out, but Spencer didn’t seem to take offense, just gave him a half-smile and a sigh. 

“No,” he admitted. “And I know that’s hypocritical of me. Maybe we should both stand up for ourselves.”

“Yeah,” Patrick said. “Yeah, maybe.”

Spencer bumped shoulders with Patrick. 

“Look at it this way,” he said. “If you just tell him how you feel, you’ll know for sure what kind of person he is. You won’t be in this limbo, wondering if he’ll ever open his eyes.”

“You’ve got a point,” Patrick conceded. He exhaled hard and rubbed his eyes, suddenly exhausted. “I feel like I’ve been here for hours. What time is it?”

Spencer checked his watch. 

“It’s eleven,” he said. “You’ve got an hour till the costume contest, which I assume is what you’re dressed up for. What are you going to do?”

“Hell if I know,” Patrick muttered. “This is a mess. I should have never agreed to do this.”

“Love makes you do crazy things,” Spencer said softly. He was staring across the yard, expression difficult to decipher, a mix between heartbroken and resigned. Patrick followed his gaze and a spike of fury hit him in the heart as he saw Brendon, leaning on the fence and clearly flirting with a girl. As they both watched, Brendon brushed the girl’s hair away from her face and kissed her. 

Spencer looked crushed, which hurt Patrick, but worst of all, he looked like he knew it was coming. Brendon broke the kiss and another surge of anger hit Patrick as Brendon glanced across the yard and saw he and Spencer. A long moment passed, then Brendon _smirked_, the absolute asshole, and leaned in for another kiss.

“At least Pete doesn’t do that,” Spencer said, voice strained. 

“Why do you put yourself through this?” Patrick asked, tearing his gaze away, unable to stomach it any longer. “How can you be in love with that?”

Spencer shrugged. 

“I make bad life choices?” he suggested. “I’m trying to stop. I’m trying to tell myself he won’t change.”

“Maybe I should do the same,” Patrick muttered, and Spencer shook his head. 

“Maybe you should talk to Pete,” he countered. “Maybe you should lay it all out for him.”

“Yeah,” Patrick said, voice hollow. He pictured Pete, back inside the house, kissing that dumb freshman. “Maybe.”

\-----

Spencer, while not exactly being the best person to take advice from, may have had a point. It was easy to assign all the blame to Pete. Pete certainly didn’t help that, not if his constant asshole moves were to be considered, but Patrick thought that perhaps he was forcing Pete to play a game while keeping the rulebook a secret. He was kind of setting Pete up for failure, just a bit. 

Yes, Pete did kind of a dick thing, but Patrick never talked to him about it. He should have a long time ago. Maybe Spencer was right and Pete had a heart in there but Patrick was just burying it from his view with all of the unspoken words between them, crushing like an avalanche. 

So it was going to go like this, Patrick decided. He would pull Pete aside before the party was over. He would say, in simple terms, that he liked Pete and he wanted to date him. In an ideal world, they would talk it out and maybe kiss and Patrick could finally lay this ghost to rest. In a less than ideal world--well. Patrick decided he wouldn’t think about that.

“You ready?” Pete said, jerking Patrick back to reality. Patrick swallowed past a dry mouth and nodded before hesitating. 

“Um,” he said. “Ready for what?”

“It’s midnight!” Pete said, tugging on Patrick’s arm. “It’s time!”

Oh. Right. It was time for the costume contest. Patrick glanced down at himself. 

“You think we’ll win?” he asked, and got a Wentz Smile in return. 

“Dude, you’re killing it,” he said, and Patrick tried not to blush. “So here’s what I was thinking. We should--you and I should have a conversation. Real quick.”

Patrick’s heart stopped. Was Pete--was Pete actually going to be the one to bring it up? Patrick’s mind went immediately to the grandest of gestures, to Pete kissing him in front of everyone and saying he loved Patrick, like a gentleman swooped in from some Victorian novel. Patrick would blush and stammer and say yes when Pete asked him to be his boyfriend, and they would kiss more, and they would live happily ever after.

“Yeah,” Patrick said, voice hoarse, feeling slightly dazed from the power of that daydream. Christ he needed to get a grip. “I was...I was actually going to ask to talk about something too.”

“Yeah?” Pete asked, and Patrick nodded. Before he could reply, though, Gabe appeared, like the worst-timed waiter ever, and punched Pete in the shoulder, looking Patrick up and down with interest. 

“You ready, buddy?” he asked Pete, and Pete nodded. Patrick nodded, too, because what the hell else was he going to do? Whatever. They’d do this and maybe win and then they would talk. And everything was going to be okay. Patrick was sure of it. “Let’s do it.”

Gabe pushed Pete who dragged Patrick out into the frankly enormous living room, where most of the partygoers had gathered in varying states of inebriation. Patrick felt heat burn his cheeks and the back of his neck and he swallowed hard, glancing around uncomfortably. 

“Sweet,” someone said from the back. It sounded like Spencer. “I loved Good Omens.”

“Aziraphale and Crowley are together!” someone shouted, and a few others cheered. “You gotta be together.”

“Together?” Pete asked, reaching out his hand. Patrick took it, heart hammering. “What do you think?” 

All the air left Patrick’s lungs at once. He tried to keep breathing, but it felt like a vice was tight around him. He felt the heavy gaze of the audience, weighing him down impossibly. The words wanted to come out, they wanted to be free, and he swallowed and tried his best to speak.

“I like you,” he blurted out, winning the battle with air and breathing and not fainting. Pete looked at him oddly and Patrick wished spontaneous combustion was an actual thing. “Um. I like you.”

Pete grinned at him, not his usual near-taunting grin, but something gentle. Soft. Patrick felt a little stupid. 

“I like you too,” he said, and, out of nowhere, with the entire party watching, he leaned in. Closer. Closer. Closer. Until his lips were pressed to Patrick’s and he was _kissing Patrick_, kissing him like Patrick had wanted for months, _fuck_. Patrick was struck dumb, just melting like useless putty in Pete’s hands, kissing back as best he could with all his brain cells currently frying in his skull.

Patrick temporarily forgot how to breathe as Pete pulled away. He was sure his eyes were huge, sure his cheeks were red, but Pete just grinned at him and faced Gabe, who was dramatically applauding. 

“Oh, that’s fantastic,” he said. “That’s killer. You really got into your roles.”

Patrick frowned. 

“No,” he said. “We--”

“Yes!” Pete crowed, interrupting like he always did. “Yes, fuck yes, good job Trick!”

“What?” Patrick asked, heart sinking. He felt like he had whiplash, jerked to one extreme and then the other. He was beginning to feel extremely worried. He felt a little sick. 

“Well, we all know who the winner is,” Gabe said, unaware of Patrick’s crisis. “And it’s Pete and Patrick!”

Pete cheered, grabbing Patrick’s hand and squeezing it. The partiers were cheering too--apparently the only one that thought something was wrong was Patrick. 

He didn’t like it. He didn’t like any of this.

“I knew it,” Pete said, grin bright and eyes shining. “I knew that kiss would win it.”

Abruptly and immediately, all the color drained from Patrick’s face as the full implications of what just happened hit him. 

Pete didn’t like him. Pete was playing a role. He must have known Patrick liked him and used it to kiss him to get goddamn box seats, because Patrick was worth _nothing_ to Pete. 

“I’m going,” Patrick said, and fled. 

\-----

“Patrick!”

Patrick ignored the shout and kept walking, shivering in the unseasonal breeze, tears still wet on his cheeks, shoes pinching painfully. How dare he. How _dare_ he kiss Patrick just to win. How could Pete be so incredibly cruel?

“Patrick, wait, please!”

Patrick picked up the pace. He did not want to talk to Pete. He did not even want to _look_ at Pete, not ever again, Joe was _right_. How could Patrick be friends with Pete when every time he thought he was over Pete, Pete pulled a stunt like this?

“Patrick!”

Pete was out of breath and Patrick scowled, yanking his arm back from where Pete had grabbed it and continuing his single minded walk back towards the dorms. Pete was undeterred, just grabbed Patrick’s arm _again_, spinning Patrick to face him. 

“What the fuck?” Pete panted, and it sounded like he honestly didn’t know. That almost made it worse. Patrick would rather Pete be cruel than clueless.

“I’m not a toy,” Patrick spat, trying unsuccessfully to wrench his arm away again. “I am not one of your little admirers that you can kiss for fun and abandon. Let go of me.”

“What are you talking about?” Pete asked. Patrick half scoffed, half snorted and glared at Pete. The streetlight shone down on the two of them like a spotlight on a stage, and it lit up the frizz of Pete’s hair where he missed with the straightener, giving him the absolutely unfair halo of an angel. Patrick hated Pete more than absolutely anyone ever, and he loathed that he loved Pete just as much, if not more, than he hated him right now. 

Joe was _right_.

“You kissed me,” Patrick said, voice cracking. His breath spiraled in the air, lit by the same streetlight and the moon, and he took another step away from Pete, back towards the dorms, shoes crunching on fallen autumn leaves. He sniffed and could smell that familiar burning-pumpkin smell of Halloween. Pete was silent. “You kissed me just to win the contest. I thought I was worth more than that.”

“You are,” Pete said. Patrick shook his head and pulled away again, this time managing to free his arm. He folded both around himself and hunched over a little, blaming the wetness of his eyes on the wind, and began walking away once more. “Patrick, wait.”

Patrick heard Pete’s feet crushing the leaves this time, and should have expected his elbow to be grabbed, stopping him in his tracks again. Patrick refused to look at Pete, just stared in the direction of campus. He sniffed again, trying to pull himself back together. This was ridiculous. 

“Excuse me,” three kids said, running past Pete and Patrick on the sidewalk, little pumpkin buckets swinging as they chattered excitedly. Patrick huffed a tiny laugh as their designated adult chased after them, clearly regretting leaving the house at all, much less staying out this late. 

Patrick could relate. 

“I thought we were cool,” Pete said, and, just like that, fury replaced sadness and Patrick twisted himself free and gave Pete a hard shove. 

“You thought we were _cool_?” he demanded, hot tears burning in his eyes, blurring his vision. “You know I like you, kiss me, and expect me to be _cool_?”

“You like me?” Pete asked, sounding a little thrown. Acting. It had to be acting. Incredibly good acting, but acting. He reached for Patrick’s arm again and Patrick took two steps back. “You didn’t say anything.”

“I did,” Patrick said, and his voice cracked again. He wanted to wipe the tears out of his eyes so he could focus on his anger instead of his broken fucking heart, but he didn’t want Pete to see that he shed even one tear over this crap, not now, not ever. “You fucking asshole, I _did_. Or I was going to. Everyone tells me I was obvious, that it was _obvious_ I was about to ask you out. But before I could, it was you and it was Ashlee and I shut up because I didn’t want to be the loser who took things the wrong way.”

“So you’re mad at yourself,” Pete said. Patrick laughed, loud and sharp and angry, because of course. Of _course_ Pete would turn it back on him. Pete was a _pro_ at avoiding all consequences of his actions and pushing the blame on absolutely anyone but himself. God, Patrick had said it before but it beared repeating--Joe was fucking _right_.

Pete was so not worth losing his mother. Pete was so not worth a damn thing. 

“Fuck you, Pete,” Patrick said, surprised but proud of himself for keeping his voice even and firm. “Fuck. You. Don’t you ever fucking talk to me again. I am not your friend. I will never be your friend again. Go fuck yourself.”

With that, Patrick turned and stormed back towards the dorms, walking quickly and purposefully, leaving Pete in stunned silence on the sidewalk. 

To his own credit, Patrick waited until he’d turned the corner, the main entrance to SF State in front of him, before he allowed the tears to fall. 

\----

All of Patrick’s pent up rage and sorrow and pain he’d suppressed from Pete’s cheating adventure roared back to the surface, all at once, overwhelming and suffocating and painful. He felt like he was dying, he honestly did, and for the first time he understood the phrase ‘died of a broken heart’ because he was there now. 

It felt like it would never end. 

Patrick spent the better part of a week in bed, under his comforter, in his pajamas, trying to sleep the pain away. It wasn’t working very well. He’d missed every class since Halloween, not to mention every shift at work, and Joe was giving him increasingly concerned looks. 

Patrick hadn’t told him a damn thing. He couldn’t bear Joe telling him _I told you so_, not now. Maybe later, when Patrick felt stronger, they could talk. For now, it was all Patrick could do to remember to drink water and eat a handful of cereal every so often. 

He really should have known better. It wasn’t like this was a surprise. Pete was a self-centered, egotistical, narcissistic, asshole and always had been. He was cruel and selfish and did not care about Patrick. He was the worst person on Earth and Patrick was _still in love with him_.

He figured love didn’t go away that easy. He figured he’d have to move on from it. But the worst feeling was remembering Pete telling him the whole situation was _Patrick’s_ fault and still feeling that desperate urge of _please pick me, please pick me_. It was awful. Patrick wanted it to stop. 

“Patrick?” Joe asked. Patrick didn’t move, covers over his head, hoping and praying Joe would think he was asleep. He was not in the mood to talk, even if it wasn’t about what had happened. “Patrick, Andy is here.”

Fuck. Patrick’s phone hadn’t been charged at all since the party. Andy probably thought he was dead. He heaved a sigh, yanking the covers off his head and squinting up at Joe, who wore an expression close to what he imagined his mother would look like if she still gave a shit about Patrick. 

He didn’t know what he looked like, but he assumed bad. He hadn’t showered in a week. His face felt so oily he was pretty sure it was flammable, and don’t even start on his hair. Joe stared at him for a long moment before sighing.

“Okay,” he said. “You need to shower. Like, now. And then you’re gonna come down to the common room because you haven’t left our room in a week, and you’re going to talk to me and Andy and explain what the hell happened. I’m not an idiot, something happened with Pete, but you need to talk to us.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Patrick said, voice hoarse from disuse. Joe gave him a thoroughly unimpressed look. He was too good at that. Way too good. “I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh,” Joe said. “Well, I’m not, so you need to get up, shower, and explain yourself to us. Okay?”

That was how Patrick found himself sitting in the common room just under 15 minutes later, hair wet and kind of dripping. He didn’t have the energy to dry it properly. He stared at Joe and Andy. They stared back. Someone walked into the common room. 

“No,” Andy said loudly, not taking his eyes off Patrick. “Leave. Now.”

The thing about Andy was that he could be super scary when he wanted to be, and he apparently wanted to be, because the intruder scurried away quickly. That or they were off to get the RA. Patrick didn’t know which he wanted. A long, tense silence stretched on until Patrick was so tense he felt like he’d snap in two.

“So?” Joe asked pointedly, gesturing at nothing for emphasis. Patrick wasn’t going to answer that. He was going to stay silent and they were going to keep staring at each other until the meteor finally hit Earth or perhaps nuclear annihilation was upon them. 

“Pete kissed me,” Patrick’s traitorous, traitorous mouth said. Both Joe and Andy raised identical eyebrows. It was unnerving. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I beg to differ,” Joe said. “You do not seem excited about this kiss.”

“Bit of an understatement,” Andy muttered. Joe elbowed him. Patrick tried not to burst into tears. It was probably evident on his face that he was attempting to not burst into tears, because both Joe and Andy’s expressions twisted and they glanced at each other before resuming their staring contest with Patrick.

“So,” Joe said again. “What happened?”

“He kissed me,” Patrick repeated. Joe twitched. “To win the contest.”

“He _what_?” both Joe and Andy demanded, voices loud and sharp and horrified. Another student began walking into the common room, but Joe and Andy were so focused on Patrick, they didn’t see her.

“I’d leave,” Patrick said dully. “It’s not going to be pleasant in here in about ten seconds.”

“I’m sorry,” Andy began, and Patrick sighed. 

“Four seconds,” he revised, and the student fled. 

“So you agreed to dress up for the contest and go to a party you didn’t want to go to,” Andy said, each word more angry than the last. “And that wasn’t enough for him? He had to stab you in the back all over again.”

Patrick’s mouth opened for him to make his usual defense of Pete’s actions, but nothing came out. He frowned and tried again, several times, but his usual excuses were no longer there and waiting for him. He met Andy’s eyes.

“Yeah,” he said instead, voice cracking. “Yeah, that’s pretty much it.”

“Okay,” Joe said, in a tone that very much suggested that things were not, in fact, okay. “Has anyone here seen _John Tucker Must Die_?”

“It’s not that dramatic,” Patrick said.

“It actually totally is,” Joe seethed. “And if I see Pete’s stupid face again it’s getting punched.”

“It’s whatever,” Patrick said and it even sounded like he was lying. “At least I know now.”

“So, that is definitely not the point,” Andy said. He sounded frighteningly thoughtful, like he was formulating a plan as they spoke. Patrick did not want to hear this plan. “What did he say afterwards?”

A flare of pain hit Patrick right in the chest and he swallowed past a complete meltdown about fairness and how much he hated his life currently. He curled his hands into fists resting on his thighs and spoke as evenly as he could. 

“So it turns out,” he said, voice a little choked. “He says he didn’t know I liked him.”

“Bullshit,” Joe said. Patrick sighed. Once again, the urge to defend Pete rose up but he shoved it mercilessly back down. No. Not this time. 

“I don’t know,” he said, overwhelmingly tired all of a sudden, dropping his gaze to the ground. “It all happened so fast. I told him I was planning to ask him out and that everyone could tell that I liked him but I let it go and he said, _he fucking said_ that I was really mad at myself.”

Patrick expected explosions of anger. He expected ranting and raving and threats and thus, was a bit surprised when neither of them said anything right away. He swallowed and looked up at them in trepidation. 

They were surveying him like he was some kid’s show and tell item, looking him over like they’d never seen him before in his life. They glanced at each other, creepily in sync, communicating apparently solely through expressions before Joe sighed and slumped, defeated. 

Andy, on the other hand, leaned forward with a kind of intimidating energy. 

“I get the feeling that you’ve been living in a very different reality than the rest of us,” Andy said carefully. He leaned in further, meeting Patrick’s gaze and resting a hand on top of one of Patrick’s clenched fists. Patrick felt frozen. “Which I suspected, but not this bad. So let me lay it out for you.”

“Lay what out,” Patrick asked numbly. Andy patted his hand gently. 

“What the actual reality is,” he said calmly. “To me and to Joe and to anyone other than you, Patrick. Here’s what happened. Everyone, and I mean everyone, and I very much include Pete, knew that you liked Pete. Everyone knew you were planning on asking him out. Everyone, except you apparently, also knew Pete liked you back. Shut up, I’m not done.”

Patrick shut his mouth and sat back, crossing his arms defensively. After a moment, Andy continued. 

“For whatever reason, and I honestly don’t know why, Pete wanted to rebuff you. Maybe he has low self esteem. Maybe he was scared. I don’t know. But he did this by sleeping with someone else. I think he desperately wanted you to call him on it. When you didn’t, he responded by trying to keep you away in the worst possible way. Which still didn’t work. Because you never say a word, you let him get away with murder, no matter what.”

A long pause followed, Patrick grasping at elusive words to say in response to that. Laid all out like that made it sound so much more pathetic than he felt. Made him want to flush, humiliated, and flee back upstairs to hide under his covers some more. Was that--was that what people who knew the situation saw? Was that how they thought of him? That pathetic?

“That makes me sound like a loser,” Patrick finally mumbled, eyes fixed on his own knees. He was trembling a little. This was a horrible idea, he should have told Joe to fuck off. He didn’t want to hear how stupid he’d been, he already felt stupid enough. 

“No, it doesn’t,” Andy probably lied, because it sure sounded like a lie to Patrick. “It makes you sound like you’re in love. And everyone, including Pete, can see it.”

“So it’s my fault?” Patrick asked, voice cracking, finally forcing his gaze upwards to meet Joe and Andy’s eyes. “Is that what you dragged me down here to tell me? That I brought this on myself?”

“Absolutely not,” Joe said immediately. “No, this entire shitshow is Pete’s fault. He made the bad decisions. All you did was not hold him accountable.”

“How, pray tell, am I supposed to _hold him accountable_?” Patrick asked. A little anger was replacing the heartbreak and misery that had so far been squatting without paying rent, and he allowed it. Welcomed it, even. “Walk around behind him every day and say _’scuse me Pete remember how you know I like you and still treat me like shit?_”

“No,” Andy said. He was still maddeningly calm. “But it would have been useful to have a conversation with him. You know what those are, right? Like what we’re having now.”

“I’m quitting my job,” Patrick said nastily. Andy ignored him.

“You should have had the conversation a long time ago, but it’s not too late,” he continued. That made Joe turn a disbelieving stare onto him, seemingly on Patrick’s side after hearing _that_ ridiculous statement.

“_Not too late?_” Joe demanded, because Patrick was having trouble stringing two words together through his shock. “The fuck do you mean _not too late_, dude, it seems a little fucking late.”

“It might be,” Andy allowed. “If Patrick decides he doesn’t ever want to see Pete again.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” Joe said immediately. Patrick’s traitorous face turned red. “Patrick. Do not.”

“I can’t actually turn off the love I have for him,” Patrick exploded. His voice cracked _horribly_ but he charged on, words leaving his mouth almost before he could think of them. “As much as I want to and as much as it would have been very convenient sometimes, I can’t stop being in love with Pete. I just can’t.”

“I didn’t say you had to stop being in love with him right away,” Joe said, a little desperate. “But that doesn’t mean go running back to him the second he asks! How is that standing up for yourself?”

“I didn’t say I’d go running back,” Patrick argued. “But I don’t know if I never want to see him again. Maybe I do. Maybe I do, if only for some closure or whatever, you know?”

“No,” Joe said unhappily. “He hurt you.”

“I know that,” Patrick said. Andy was looking between them, that terrifyingly thoughtful look back on his face. Patrick already dreaded whatever he was going to say. “Joe, don’t you think I _know_ that? I just—believe me, I wish I could say _fuck him_ and walk away but I just can’t.”

“He’s just going to hurt you again,” Joe said, his voice almost painfully earnest. His eyes were wide and damp and he stared at Patrick imploringly. Patrick opened his mouth but apparently Joe wasn’t done, because he barreled through, words leaving him faster than Patrick could almost comprehend. “Patrick, he does not care about you. And I know that’s hard to hear and I know you still love him, but you keep giving him second chances and he keeps fucking them up.”

“Pete cares about Patrick,” Andy said. Joe sent him a betrayed look. “What? I genuinely think he does. He’s just ...misguided.”

“You’re supposed to be on my side,” he said unhappily. “How on God’s green Earth can talking to Pete again do any good?”

“It might not,” Andy allowed. “But at least Patrick would lay it all out.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Patrick whispered. “What if I freeze?”

“Exactly,” Joe muttered. Andy ignored him. 

“I’m not saying run out and do it right now,” he said. “That’s not logical. You need to try and pull yourself together first. But I do think it would be a good thing to do at some point. Even if it was just to clear the air.”

Joe muttered something under his breath and sat back, folding his arms but not arguing. Patrick knew that meant he thought Andy was right. Patrick didn’t know if he found that reassuring or not. 

“I’ll think about it,” Patrick said finally, after what felt like a century had passed. Andy nodded in clear satisfaction and Patrick took a shaky breath. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Andy said, nodding. “How do you feel?”

“Exhausted,” Patrick said honestly. “I want to go to sleep.”

“I feel you,” Andy replied. “Take care of yourself, okay? I’ll keep your job for you.”

“Thank you,” Patrick whispered gratefully. 

——

There was a basket outside Patrick and Joe’s door. It looked like an Easter basket, except for how it was mid-November and not April. Patrick and Joe exchanged a long look, which clearly said:

_Did you expect something like this? _

_No, what the hell, would I be staring at it blankly if I had? _

The basket didn’t move an inch during their complicated deep facial conversation, and, when they were done, Patrick took a cautious breath and poked it with his toe. 

Nothing happened. The air left Patrick’s lungs with a _whoosh_ and he leaned down to pick it up for real. 

“Bam!” Joe shouted, pushing Patrick a little. Patrick swore loudly, nearly dropping the basket. Once he’d regained a perilous grip on the thing, he turned to punch whatever part of Joe was nearest. 

“Dick,” he said. Joe just smirked, swiping his card and opening their dorm room door, gesturing ahead of himself and bowing like some fucking maiden. Patrick rolled his eyes, elbowing Joe none-too-gently as he passed, before setting the basket down on his bed and poking at the weird ninja turtles fabric that covered it. 

“You know what this is?” Joe said, in a tone that suggested whatever was about to come out of his mouth was absolutely not what was in the basket. “It’s the Messiah. We’ve been chosen to raise baby Jesus 2.0.”

“Would you shut the fuck up?” Patrick asked. 

“Patrick!” Joe said, sounding scandalized. “Not in front of baby Jesus 2.0!”

“You’re _Jewish_,” Patrick pointed out. Joe gave him a shiteating grin in return. 

“Baby Jesus is for _everyone_,” he replied. 

Patrick rolled his eyes and lifted the fabric up in order to peer into it. Part of him hoped it was for Joe and it was something embarrassing his mom had left him, like wart cream or his retainer.

It was neither. Patrick pulled the fabric all the way off to reveal the following, which he recognized in this order: one (1) teddy bear that said, in all caps across a heart it was holding between its paws ‘_SHIT BITCH YOU IS FINE_’, and three (3) DVDs, which were three Patrick didn’t already own (the three were Galaxy Quest, the special edition of Ghostbusters he’d had on his Amazon wishlist for-fucking-ever, and fucking _A Reality Tour_, which he’d left at home to keep safe but now realized he’d probably never get back.) 

Patrick blinked the dampness out of his eyes and poked through the basket some more. Amongst the DVDs and the bear was Halloween candy, but only Patrick’s favorites. He spotted licorice and smiled involuntarily, the smile only growing when he saw tiny, single-serving boxes of cereal shoved under the mountain of candy. 

He picked up the bear, huffing a laugh this time as he read the _SHIT BITCH YOU IS FINE_ bit again, and something fell out of its lap. Patrick set the bear on the mattress and picked up what had fallen--a flashdrive.

“What is this, a _thanks for letting me stalk you_ gift basket?” Joe demanded. He picked up a piece of candy and narrowed his eyes at it, looking it over like he was checking for razor blades. Patrick punched his shoulder. “What? Patrick, this is literally a basket of you. I didn’t send this and neither did Andy, so who else knows this much about you to send you something like this? A stalker, that’s who.”

“Or Pete,” Patrick said quietly, realization dawning. He cleared his throat as his heart gave its old, familiar ache and turned the flashdrive over in his hand, wondering what was on it. Joe made a derisive noise, somewhere between a snort and scoff, and scooped up the basket. 

“To the garbage with it, then,” he declared, and Patrick rolled his eyes, grabbing his arm to stop his dramatic trip across the room. 

“Stop,” he said quietly, and it was Joe’s turn to roll his eyes, but he set the basket back down anyway, putting his hands on his hips in an eerily accurate imitation of his own mother. “Even if it is from him, I can keep it and tell him to fuck off if I decide to.”

Joe smirked.

“I knew I raised you right,” he declared. 

“I am five months older than you, dickwad,” Patrick retorted. He looked back down at the flashdrive. It was an innocuous little thing, totally normal and unobtrusive. It definitely didn’t flash any warning signs like _guilt trip imminent_ or _bullshit not-apology forthcoming_, that was for sure. He wondered if he should even bother looking at it. 

He sighed. 

“Alright,” he said, with a not-inconsiderable amount of trepidation. “How bad could it be?”

“Oh,” Joe said seriously. “Let’s not answer that.”

Patrick reached for his laptop, powering it on and sliding the flashdrive in. He slipped his headphones on and Joe howled like an animal, yanking them off so ferociously a couple of Patrick’s precious few hairs were clutched in his fist, which was thrust above him like he was a hunter winning the fight. Or something. 

“What the hell,” he complained loudly. Joe shook his head. “Dude.”

“No,” Joe said. “I did not endure weeks of you crying to not get to listen to whatever horseshit Pete put on that thing.”

“I thought you were just being a supportive friend,” Patrick frowned. Joe scoffed. 

“Lesson one,” he said, but lessons to what Patrick wasn’t sure. “You can have more than one motive at a time. Let’s go.”

“You are so goddamn pushy,” Patrick muttered, but he double clicked to open the flashdrive up. There was only one file on it. It was a video file, which figured. Patrick really would prefer to watch it alone, but, as if he’d sensed Patrick’s thoughts, Joe clambered up onto Patrick’s bed, limbs ungainly and elbowing Patrick at least three times as he got as close as possible.

“Go on,” Joe said, breath hot on Patrick’s face. Patrick grimaced. “Let’s hear what he has to say.”

“Fine,” Patrick muttered, and opened the video up. It sure was Pete, sitting in the middle of the frame and looking relatively contrite. Considering everything, at least. Pete cleared his throat, and Patrick hated how he recognized the nervous gesture. 

“Loser,” Joe commented. Patrick hit pause and fixed him with a Look. Well, as best he could with Joe plastered to him, at least. “What?”

“Are you going to have a running commentary the entire time?” he asked. Joe scowled. 

“I’ll shut up,” he muttered. “But I won’t like it.”

“Whatever,” Patrick said. He hit play again and watched as Pete fidgeted on camera, looking anywhere but at the lens for a good minute before sighing and making eye contact. 

“So, I fucked up,” Pete said. His voice had that tinny, echo-like tone of low-quality recordings. Patrick elbowed Joe hard before he could say a word. He already knew what he’d say, anyway. He stared at Pete through the screen of his laptop, heart doing its familiar twist of grief as he took in Pete’s appearance. He looked a little haggard, dark circles under his eyes. Patrick worried for a moment about how much he’d been sleeping, if at all, before he shook himself and reminded himself it wasn’t his problem anymore. Pete’s hair was greasy, unkempt, nothing like how he usually had it, and his shoulders were slumped. 

Patrick tried to tell himself that Pete had always been a good actor. 

“I really fucked up,” Pete continued. “And I’ve tried to think of a million ways to apologize, a million ways to say how sorry I am, trying to think of anything that would win you over but now I realize I don’t actually deserve you.”

This time, Patrick didn’t elbow Joe in time, too fixated on Pete’s face, on Pete’s voice. Joe snorted in derision, but didn’t say anything. A minor miracle, probably.

“I got to thinking about what all had happened, and I saw a pattern.” Pete’s voice was tired. He swiped a hand across his face and sighed. “A pattern of me being a complete _asshole_. I knew you liked me. I’m not dumb. I _know_ you like me and I also know _I like you too_ and I panicked. It’s not an excuse--”

“Damn right,” Joe muttered. Patrick couldn’t move.

“--but that’s why I did what I did. And then tried to justify it to myself when you didn’t react or say anything. I pretended that it obviously meant you weren’t hurt when deep down I knew you couldn’t bring yourself to confront me. And I took advantage of that. And I knew I was a piece of shit so I just kept pushing, just kept acting more and more like a dick to try and make you fall out of love with me but all I did was hurt you over and over.”

Patrick sniffed, wiping away a tear before it could have the audacity to fall, and folded his arms tight, breathing hitched. Joe laid a hesitant hand on his shoulder but stayed quiet. 

“I wish I had just owned up to what I was doing and how I felt. I wish I would have just talked to you because maybe things would be better but I ruined it. I don’t have an excuse for what I did. Not what was ongoing and especially not at the party. I was a complete asshole. I understand you want nothing to do with me anymore. I wouldn’t, either. But I want you to know how fucking sorry I am, Patrick. I was so, so cruel. I should have been a better person, a better friend. You don’t have to forgive me. I wouldn’t if it were me. But I had to say it. Okay? I’m sorry and I love you, I do.”

Pete stared into the lens for a long moment before sighing again, the screen going dark. Patrick was face to face with his own wide eyed expression, Joe next to him, looking him over in trepidation. Patrick felt like he was having trouble breathing, like there was a bag over his head and no matter how he gulped, he could not find air. 

“Patrick?” Joe said hesitantly after what felt like a minimum of two centuries. Patrick looked over at him, feeling like a deer in the headlights, and Joe very gently squeezed his shoulder. 

“That was a lot,” he said carefully, a far cry from the snarky bastard he’d been before. “It’s okay if you need time to process. I get that.”

“Process what?” Patrick said, voice thick with tears. Ugh, he hated it. He cleared his throat and swallowed hard, shutting his laptop and pushing it off his lap onto the bed. He rubbed his eyes and barely refrained from covering his face and screaming himself hoarse. Small victories, really. “What part of that am I supposed to _process_? The apology? How it actually sounded genuine? The part where he—Pete Wentz, remember—actually _accepted responsibility_ for something? Please tell me what I’m supposed to process first because I’ve got no fucking clue.”

Joe squeezed his shoulder again and all the fight went out of Patrick at once. He slouched over, breathing hard, trying to avoid bursting into tears. God, this wasn’t fair. That--that was everything Patrick wanted to hear from Pete. It was an explanation, an apology, it was sincere and thoughtful and Patrick wanted to tear his hair out because now he was between a rock and a hard place.

That old, well-worn part of his heart, the one that still ached for Pete, wanted him to run right back to Pete’s side, forgive him and move on, living happily ever after, but the new part of him, that jaded part that remembered the party, the kiss--that one still never wanted to see Pete again and Patrick had no clue which part of him he should listen to. 

Which part would make him happy?

“Patrick,” Joe said, and Patrick blinked in surprise, momentarily forgetting Joe was even there. He stared over at him, trying hard to be expressionless, but he didn’t think he was very successful at it. Joe looked nervous, glancing from the closed laptop, flashdrive still plugged in, to Patrick, like he was searching for something to say. Patrick reached down and yanked the flashdrive out, tossing it somewhere in the vicinity of his wastebasket, before drawing his knees up and hiding his head. 

“You don’t have to make a decision now,” Joe said gently. Patrick kind of hated him. “How do you feel?”

“How do you think?” Patrick said bitterly, voice muffled. “Pete dropped by a gift and a video for me after weeks of silence and I’m supposed to be fine?”

“No,” Joe said, remarkably patient for someone who couldn’t wait in line in the dining hall for more than three minutes without complaint. “You definitely don’t have to feel fine. Whatever you’re feeling is valid.”

“I don’t know,” Patrick said plaintively, picking his head back up and looking at Joe in desperation. “I don’t know what to feel.”

“It’s okay,” Joe said. “We can figure it out together.”

\-----

The week leading up to Thanksgiving was a nightmare. Not only did he have to contend with the fact that his mother was actually serious--no invitation was forthcoming, no phone call to patch things up--but now he had to figure Pete out all over again. He’d watched the video at least twenty more times, trying to detect anything, anything at all, that would tell Patrick that Pete was not 100% honest.

He did not find any. Hence why he was here, in a jacket and boots and a scarf, wondering if Pete had stayed or gone home. 

Pete’s building was intimidating. The senior housing, coveted and precious and limited, was brand new, all singles. Unlike Patrick, who was shoved in a room with Joe, the messiest asshole on the planet, and shared a bathroom with two more dudes who didn’t really know what _clean_ meant. 

This was ridiculous. Pete had probably gone home. Thanksgiving was _tomorrow_, there wasn’t anyone left on campus except the sad people who didn’t have anywhere to go. 

Like Patrick. 

He heaved a sigh and took his hands out of his pockets, reaching for the door and stepping into the building. It was an intense change from cold to warm and Patrick shivered involuntarily. What the hell was he doing? Even if Pete were here, what would Patrick even _say_? Didn’t this qualify, at bare minimum, as running right back to Pete to get hurt?

Okay, so Andy and Joe hadn’t actually said he shouldn’t do this. Patrick wasn’t an idiot, he knew they were chatting behind his back about the video and Patrick’s emotions and what Patrick should do. But Patrick was _reasonably_ certain that if they thought it was a bad idea, they would have said something when Patrick texted them that he was going to see if Pete was still on campus. 

Either that or they thought Patrick was too far gone to save. For his own sake, Patrick was banking on the former. 

He didn’t need to be signed in, seeing as how the campus was technically closed, so he walked right past the empty reception desk and headed to the elevator, smacking the button for floor seven with more force than he technically needed. The doors closed with a quiet _whoosh_ and Patrick was left alone with his thoughts as the elevator hummed to life. 

So, say Pete was still here, for whatever reason. Patrick didn’t know what that reason would be, but just _say_ Pete was here. Would Patrick walk right up to him and smack him? As if. Once upon a time, someone backed into Patrick’s car and Patrick wound up apologizing to _them_. Now that he thought about it, that might have been an indicator that he was not good at standing up for himself. But he digressed.

So he wasn’t smacking the shit out of Pete, even though he might deserve it. So what was next? Saying hello? Pretending like nothing happened? No, that’s what got him into this mess to begin with. Patrick sighed. 

“Hello, Pete,” he said quietly. “No, too formal. I’ve literally never said hi to Pete like that. Okay. Um. Hey, Pete. I got your gift. So what was that about? Yeah. I’ll ask him what he meant. I’ll make him tell me the truth. I can do this. I _can_.”

The elevator stopped, the doors slid open, and all of Patrick’s resolve splintered into pieces as he came face to face with Pete. 

To be frank, Pete looked just as shocked to see him as he was to see Pete. A duffle bag was hanging off Pete’s shoulder, but he dropped it instantly, staring wide-eyed at Patrick. 

The elevator doors started to close. Pete shot his arm out at the same time Patrick did and they wound up nearly touching, still unable to take their eyes off each other. The elevator chimed in what seemed like annoyance. 

“Are you--” Patrick began, faltering for a moment before gathering his resolve up again and continuing. “Are you going somewhere?”

“It can wait,” Pete said, voice raw. “It’s not important, nothing is important--you’re here.”

“Yeah,” Patrick said, voice cracking. The elevator dinged again and he stumbled forward instinctively, Pete stepping back several wide steps to allow Patrick to leave the elevator with plenty of personal space, something that had never happened before in the history of their…relationship. Pete, respecting personal space? Unheard of. 

The elevator doors closed behind him and it was just him and Pete in the dorm hallway, face to face and alone. 

Patrick cleared his throat. 

“I’m still not sure I’m supposed to be here,” he said. “I have--like, a million reasons I shouldn’t be here and just one reason why I should.”

“What’s the reason?” Pete asked. His voice cracked. He still hadn’t taken his eyes off Patrick. Patrick shrugged helplessly. 

“I got your present,” he said. “And I watched the video.”

“Oh,” Pete said. A painful moment of awkward silence passed before Pete blurted out: “And?”

“And I don’t know,” Patrick said. His voice cracked this time, and tiny pinpricks of tears blurred his vision a little. He blinked them back. “I don’t know, Pete. Because it’s just so much.”

“I know I hurt you,” Pete said plaintively. His hands twitched like he wanted to grab on to Patrick and never let him go, but that he was practicing not doing that anymore. Patrick didn’t know what to think. It was apparently a running theme. “I do. I know. And I’m sorry. I’m--”

“I know,” Patrick said, cutting Pete off. Pete shut his mouth with a snap. “I know you’re sorry. That doesn’t change what happened.”

Pete’s face fell, just the smallest bit, but he gritted his teeth and nodded anyway, dropping his gaze from Patrick to the floor. Patrick took a deep, steadying breath. He could do this. He had to. 

“Why’d you pull that shit, Pete?” he asked, and there was an interesting mixture of anger and pain in his voice that Patrick didn’t mean to let out. Pete’s breathing hitched, his shoulders hunched. Patrick pressed on. “On the video you make it clear you loved me too. So why did you pull that shit?”

“I don’t know,” Pete whispered, screwing his eyes shut. “I don’t know. I’m an asshole. It’s incurable. You didn’t deserve that and I don’t deserve you, I know. I know that. I fucked up so much and I wish I could tell you there was even a reason for it at all but there wasn’t. I don’t know.”

“You said you knew I loved you,” Patrick said. His voice was cold, and he didn’t mean for it to be that cold, but he couldn’t help it. “In the video. If you knew I loved you and you loved me, why the _fuck_ didn’t you just _say something_?”

“Because you were too _good_,” Pete said. He still wasn’t looking at Patrick, and he flinched when Patrick snorted derisively. 

“Don’t you fucking put this on me,” he said, and Pete shook his head quickly. 

“No, I’m not, I promise,” he said. “I’m not. It’s not your fault. It’s mine, all mine.”

“You loved me and I loved you,” Patrick said evenly. “And you acted like an ass to push me away. I should have talked to you about the way you acted. I know I shouldn’t have let you get away with it like I did. But why did you do it?”

“I got scared,” Pete said. “I got scared and self conscious when people told me you really did like me. I convinced myself they were lying, because I didn’t think anyone could like me. I considered myself too broken and too...vile and I couldn’t have someone as good as you. I know it sounds ridiculous. I know I’m an asshole. But I didn’t know what else to do.”

“So your solution was to act like a dick?” Patrick demanded. “Because you didn’t feel good enough for me? That wasn’t your choice to make. I chose you. I’m an adult. You don’t get to decide things for me.”

“I know,” Pete said. His voice sounded utterly and completely broken. His hands were balled up tight into fists at his sides and he was shaking a little. If Patrick were a worse person, he’d turn and leave, leave Pete like this alone in his dorm, the way Patrick had been feeling for months. 

But Patrick wasn’t terrible. He stayed put, waited for Pete to take deep breaths and get himself under a little more control before he continued, pointed but calmer. 

“You fucked up,” he told Pete, and Pete flinched but nodded. He was still staring at the ground, like he was afraid to look back up. “I know you understand that. Do you really know why I am hurt?”

“Yes,” Pete whispered. “Because I knew you liked me and acted like a dick anyway. Because I took advantage of the fact that you didn’t want to confront me. Because I let you let me act like an ass over and over again. Because I kissed you and panicked and hurt you again just to protect myself.”

Patrick didn’t say anything for a long moment. Pete was still shaking a little where he stood. Patrick couldn’t see his face but he wouldn’t be surprised if Pete was crying. 

Patrick tried and failed to imagine Brendon doing anything like this for Spencer and realized, with a startling amount of confidence, that perhaps Spencer was right. Perhaps there really was a good person in Pete. 

“There’s thin ice,” Patrick said, and Pete looked up at him quickly, confusion all over his face. Patrick was right, he was crying. His cheeks were wet and his eyes were red. Patrick resisted the urge to reach out to him. “And then there’s thinner ice, and then there is the thinnest ice there is and that is where you are.”

Pete was still staring at him in abject confusion and Patrick took a deep breath, steeling himself, gathering every nerve he had. He still wasn’t sure he wasn’t making a terrible, terrible mistake. He still wasn’t sure if this was what he should do. But he was doing it.

“If you _ever_,” Patrick said, putting as much emphasis on _ever_ as he could. “And I do mean _ever_ try anything like this again, I really will leave. Permanently. Forever. Do you understand me?”

“No,” Pete said, then shook himself. “I mean yes and no. Yes I understand the words you said. No I don’t understand what you’re saying. I’m sorry.”

“I’m saying that I am, for some reason, giving you a second chance,” Patrick said. “And I am telling you not to blow it.”

“Why?” Pete asked, voice cracking. Patrick swallowed hard. 

“Because despite my better instincts,” he said. “I still love you, you gigantic asshole. And I fucking know you love me too. And someone told me there’s a good person in you somewhere. So I’m giving him a chance to come out. Don’t act like a dick. Don’t flirt with other people. Don’t treat me like shit. Okay?”

“Okay,” Pete whispered. His voice sounded wet and full of tears. “I really am sorry.”

“If I didn’t believe you were sorry, I wouldn’t be here,” Patrick said. Pete covered his face for a long moment, taking slow, shuddering breaths, and Patrick let him. He reached out slowly, lying a gentle hand on Pete’s shoulder and that was all it took. 

Pete burst into tears, honest to God tears, shoulders shaking, breathing labored, and Patrick sighed, pulling him gently closer and wrapping his arms around Pete. 

“It’s okay,” he said quietly. “We are starting over. I forgive you. I forgive you because I love you.”

It took a bit for Pete to get ahold of himself, crying into Patrick’s shoulder, dampening his shirt and shaking hard. Patrick stayed put, rubbing his back, and, in some weird way, it felt like with every minute Pete cried like this, Patrick felt a little less angry. That was probably not a fantastic coping mechanism, but he at least felt a little like he was doing the right thing. Finally. 

“Where are you going?” Patrick asked again, once Pete had calmed considerably. Pete sighed shakily, face still buried in Patrick’s shoulder. His grip tightened on Patrick for a long moment. 

“I told my mom,” he admitted shakily. “What I had done. And she’s super mad at me. Demanded I come home and explain myself.”

“Oh,” Patrick said quietly. Pete took a deep breath and leaned back, meeting Patrick’s eyes with his own red-rimmed ones. 

“Do you want to come home with me?” he asked. “For Thanksgiving? I promise it’s not just to make my mom less mad at me.”

Patrick laughed before he could help himself, snorting loudly and giggling before he could help himself. Pete looked a little pleased, a little happy, and Patrick decided he didn’t mind it, not at all. 

“Okay,” he said gently. “Okay, I will.”

Pete smiled at him, still a little shaky, and Patrick smiled back. 

He took a deep breath and nodded again.

\------

The drive to Pete’s mom’s house was a quiet one. Pete kept stealing glances at Patrick, awe in his eyes like he couldn’t believe Patrick was here. For his part, Patrick couldn’t believe he was here, either. Not giving Pete a second chance, he’d already accepted that part, but actually meeting Pete’s mom, right off the bat. 

It kind of made Patrick feel more like he did the right thing. 

His duffle bag was thrown in the back with Pete’s and the idea that he would undoubtedly be spending the night was a thought Patrick hadn’t even looked at yet. 

“I thought you were from Chicago,” Patrick said. “Like me.”

Inside his head he was pleading with whoever would listen: _please let it be true. Don’t let this be another lie._

“I am,” Pete said, and Patrick exhaled a little. “My mom moved up to Napa to pursue her apparent dream of wine making. My dad retired and followed her. I still accuse them of stalking me to college.”

Patrick huffed out a laugh despite everything. Pete cracked a tiny, almost hidden grin, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel like he’d thought about moving his hands but reconsidered. A low level anxiety seemed to be thrumming through Pete’s body, as evidenced by the tense line of his shoulders and the set of his jaw. 

Patrick sighed.

“What’s your mom going to say?” Patrick asked eventually, over the sound of the wheels on the road. He wasn’t looking at Pete, he was staring out, focusing on inane things like _wow, there’s hardly any traffic for 3pm on a Thursday_ and _those are some dark clouds, I wonder if it’ll rain?_ instead of thoughts like _in Chicago, dinner is already served and I’m not there_ and _what in the fuck do I think I’m doing?_

“About what?” Pete asked. He was focusing very carefully on the road and not at Patrick, who’d glanced over. Pete had missed a patch of hair shaving this morning, and Patrick reached over and poked it, lightly. 

“You missed a spot,” Patrick said. 

“I always do,” Pete replied. He swallowed, adjusted his grip again. “What’s my mom gonna say about what?”

“About me,” Patrick said. He was still looking at Pete, couldn’t look away. Pete clearly noticed because he hunched over a little, as if he was hiding. Patrick poked him in the ribs this time. “Sit up straight, my back hurts looking at you. What’s she gonna say to you bringing home your boyfriend after telling her you fucked up?”

_Boyfriend_ Pete mouthed, as if he’d never heard the word before. His eyes were comically wide and despite the fact that he was staring straight out the windshield, Patrick doubted he really saw anything. If there were other cars on the road, Patrick would be worried. Pete mouthed it again. _Boyfriend_.

“Yes,” Patrick said. “We’ve established that.”

“She’ll probably corner you,” Pete said quietly. “To make sure you know what you’re doing. Ask why you’re not with your family.”

Pete shot Patrick a sideways look and Patrick knew the question was coming before Pete had even opened his mouth. 

He let Pete ask anyway. 

“Why _aren’t_ you with your mom?”

Patrick didn’t hurt at that question, he _didn’t_. He was fine. He wasn’t upset that he was heading to a Thanksgiving at a house other than his mom’s, to eat with a family he had never met, with a boyfriend he just forgave. He was fine. 

“I’m sorry,” Pete said quietly, as Patrick swiped angrily at his eyes, internally hissing at himself to calm down. For once, for fucking once, this technically wasn’t Pete’s fault. It wasn’t Pete’s fault his mother reacted the way she did. It wasn’t.

It wasn’t fair for Patrick to blame Pete for his mother’s independent actions. 

“She, uh,” Patrick said, then cleared his throat. “I came out to her and she basically disowned me.”

“She what?” Pete asked, not quiet at all, pure shock in his voice. It made sense—his mom, even after hearing what Pete did, still told him to come home. Patrick was willing to bet Pete’s mom would love her son forever. 

Patrick’s mom apparently wouldn’t. Patrick didn’t need to check his phone to know there were no missed calls. 

“I’m sorry,” Pete said again, and Patrick shook his head. No, it really wasn’t fair. 

“Not your fault,” he managed, forcing a grin he was sure looked wrong. Pete, if possible, just looked sadder. “Really. Out of everything, this is not your fault.”

“I can’t imagine what that felt like,” Pete said, looking over at him again before returning his attention to the road. Patrick abandoned all pretense, staring openly at Pete. He wasn’t sure what look he had on his face, but he hoped it wasn’t desperate. “You had to deal with that on top of everything?”

Patrick shrugged. It wasn’t really a shrug-worthy moment but Patrick really didn’t want to go there right now. Yes, he forgave Pete. No, he didn’t want to test their fragile relationship. Maybe later they could talk about it. Maybe if they lasted a week. Or a month. Or even, incredibly, a year. 

Maybe then they could dissect Patrick’s disappointment and heartbreak over his mother. 

But not now. Not in a car, speeding—“Pete, you are going eighty miles an hour!”—down the highway towards their first Thanksgiving together, in the first day of their relationship, and Patrick didn’t know if they would survive.

But, he thought, looking over at Pete again, then again, maybe they would. 

——

**Epilogue**

“You look,” Pete said, leaning against the doorframe, ignoring the people trying to actually use the door as a door. “So very cute.”

“You are contractually obligated to say that,” Patrick said, gesturing for Pete to move. Pete rolled his eyes but complied. 

“Did I sign a contract?” Pete asked, with interest. “I don’t remember this. Forgery is a crime, Patrick.”

“We get it, you got into law school,” Patrick said, making a face at Pete. “Any other tidbits you want to casually drop into conversation to brag about yourself?”

“I have a hot boyfriend,” Pete said. 

“Really?” Patrick asked. “I haven’t seen him.”

“You’re not funny,” Pete said, which was a lie, because Patrick was very funny. He leaned in anyway and Patrick allowed a single, gentle kiss on the lips before he pulled away.

“I’m at work,” he said. Pete nodded seriously. 

“Very busy,” he said, gesturing at the empty room. After Pete had allowed the few people to actually leave, the tutoring center had been deserted. “Can’t imagine why college students aren’t here, brushing up on their essays and whatnot, on Halloween night.”

“There must be one responsible student around,” Patrick argued weakly. Pete raised an eyebrow, an infuriating smirk on his face. Patrick already knew he wasn’t gonna like this. 

“There is,” Pete agreed. “And it’s you, babe.”

“Lucky me,” Patrick muttered darkly. “What time are we supposed to be at your sister’s?”

“By five,” Pete said. “So we have a few hours to kill.”

“She texted me,” Patrick said. “She said, and I quote, if we are not there on time and she has to take Mariah trick or treating, we are dead meat.”

“We’ll be there,” Pete assured Patrick, with all of his easy confidence. Patrick hate/loved that about Pete. He was all cocky swagger and dirty smirks until it was just them, and then he was soft and sensitive. 

Patrick wouldn’t have him any other way.

“I don’t have any other appointments,” Patrick said slowly, and fought a grin as Pete’s eyes lit up. “And my boss did say that I could close up whenever I wanted….”

“Did she now,” Pete said, a smile creeping across his unfairly handsome face. “How very kind of her.”

“So I suppose,” Patrick said, giving a loud, exaggerated fake sigh. “If you insist, we can go do something for a few hours before taking your niece tonight.”

“I won the lottery with you, didn’t I?” Pete said, so heart-wrenchingly honest it made Patrick melt a little. 

“You better believe it,” he said, instead of dissolving right in front of Pete. Pete laughed out loud and Patrick poked him in the chest. 

“Hey,” he said sternly. Pete looked at him, amusement on his face, head cocked and ready to listen. “You told me to dress up. I am wearing this Jedi robe for you. Where the hell is _your_ costume, Mr. Halloween-is-a-sacred-holiday?”

“You should capitalize all those words,” Pete said petulantly. “It’s a title.”

“This is a verbal conversation,” Patrick replied. 

“It’s all in your _tone_,” Pete protested, and Patrick rolled his eyes. “I have a costume, honest. You should come back to the apartment and help me get dressed.”

“You’re so transparent,” Patrick said, but he was fighting laughter again and took Pete’s outstretched arm, allowing him to lead Patrick from the tutoring center in the library onto campus. Patrick blinked into the sunshine, wishing he’d brought his sunglasses to work, and looked over at Pete. 

Pete was grinning, looking right at Patrick with an almost dizzying amount of pride and happiness. He looked like he wanted to shout to the entire world--_look! Patrick is my boyfriend!_ Patrick had always wanted to see that look. Now he got to see it every day, every day for almost a year. 

Patrick was glad he’d decided on a second chance.

“Hey Pete,” someone said from behind them, and Patrick couldn’t help it, he scowled. Pete quickly patted his arm, trying to reassure him, and pulled him unmistakably close. 

“What, Brendon?” Pete asked, with a nice mixture of disdain and disgust in his voice. It cheered Patrick up immensely. He turned with Pete, clutching onto his arm and lifting his head high, smirking at Brendon’s scowl. 

“I was just wondering if you were hitting up Gabe’s tonight,” Brendon said. He was trying. _Bless_ his heart. He was very obviously avoiding looking at Patrick altogether, clearly trying to pretend Patrick wasn’t arm in arm with Pete. The high color on his pale cheeks suggested otherwise. 

“No,” Pete said, easily, simply. “I have plans. Me and Patrick have plans.”

“Plans more important than the party?” Brendon asked. He fake-pouted; it really didn’t suit him. Pete nodded. 

“Much more important,” he said. “Was there anything else, or…”

“So you guys are for real still together then,” Brendon said, and his tone was icy. He finally dropped his gaze to Patrick, sneering at him as Patrick just smiled beatifically back. Ha ha fucker. Who won now?

“Yep,” Pete said, pressing a kiss to the top of Patrick’s head. Patrick felt a very petty wave of satisfaction at that. Being a dick didn’t pan out very well for Brendon, apparently. 

Patrick noticed a distinct lack of Spencer and raised an eyebrow. Brendon met his eyes but quickly looked away--an admission, at least as far as Patrick was concerned. Spencer must have finally wised up. Good for him. He deserved way better. 

“Come on,” Brendon pleaded. “You love Gabe’s parties. He throws the best ones.”

“Maybe,” Pete shrugged. “But I have plans with Patrick.”

“We’re going to be late,” Patrick lied, injecting as much petulance into it as possible. Pete cut him an amused, fond look, giving him a gentle squeeze before looking back up at Brendon. 

“We’re going to be late,” Pete repeated, and Patrick beamed. “Excuse us.”

Pete slid his hands down Patrick’s arm and tangled their fingers together, giving him a gentle tug in the opposite direction of Brendon. Brendon had a nasty look on his face, and he was looking from Pete to Patrick in undisguised fury. Oh, fuck him. He didn’t even like Pete, he just wanted to fuck Patrick over. 

“I hate him,” Patrick muttered. Pete laughed, squeezing his hand. 

“He is a real dick,” he said thoughtfully. “I’d rather have you any day of the week.”

“I bet you say that to all the boys,” Patrick said. Pete rolled his eyes. “Wanna get food? I owe you from July.”

“That was the Cubs game,” Pete protested. “My treat. You don’t owe me a thing, shut up.”

“What?” Patrick said loudly, pulling his hand away from Pete’s in order to dramatically cover his ears and shout. “What did you say? I can’t hear you!”

“You little shit,” Pete laughed, trying to pull Patrick’s hands down and kiss him, but Patrick squirmed out of the way, grin taking over his face the more Pete laughed. Finally, Patrick relented, allowing Pete to kiss him slowly, hands tangled together. 

“Come on,” Pete whispered, once they broke apart. “You have to help me get dressed.”

“That’s still the worst euphemism you’ve ever used,” Patrick said, and Pete grinned, taking Patrick’s hand and tugging him along. “If you don’t really have a costume, I will create one, and you don’t want that.”

“On the contrary, my good sir,” Pete said. “I want everything you give me.”

“That’s gross,” Patrick said, and laughed, letting Pete lead him across the campus and towards his car. Patrick’s grin was hurting his face, it was so big, and he couldn’t take his eyes off Pete as they walked. He hadn’t been sure, a year ago, if he made the right decision. 

He was pretty damn sure now. He made the right decision. 

And he was never going back. 

\-----

**Author's Note:**

> follow me to smalltalktorture.tumblr.com


End file.
